


There Are Moments In-Between

by oldcatloudcat



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, FemShep - Freeform, Garrus Vakarian - Freeform, Jeff "Joker" Moreau - Freeform, Kaidan Alenko - Freeform, ME2 spoilers, Mass Effect - Freeform, Mass Effect 2, Romance, Shakarian - Freeform, Slow Burn, but I wanted more of this relationship, gotta edit some more, i needed more, intimacy in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4509615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldcatloudcat/pseuds/oldcatloudcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is difficult to recount the moments, the thoughts, that occur between fighting and running (hell, sometimes during fighting and running) that begin to matter. Let's collect some of them here.<br/>An expansion and re-illustration of the bond that blossomed between Garrus Vakarian and Commander Shepard. Something so monumental, so anticipated, so intergalactic, deserves luxury and time.</p><p>As of September, 2015, have more chapters written and will be updating.<br/>Spoilers for ME2<br/>As always, everything belongs to Bioware</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**One**

* * *

Everything was on fire. The Normandy, Shepard’s vision, her head – all burning. This was supposed to be a routine search and destroy, just a small pocket of geth. But in that moment, Shepard knew the truth.

_This is it. I knew they would come and they’re coming – Reapers._

Shepard attempted to deal with the flames around her. Her whole world was red, blinking emergency lights bathing everything in a dull glow. And the fire. Everywhere. Her ship, her world, burning. When the Normandy had taken evasive manouvers, she had felt the ship rock a bit and knew something was wrong. She had just pulled her armor over her jumpsuit when the first blast struck. After she had rushed out of her cabin, she found the ship in chaos. With that, her helmet slipped on, and all panic faded away. Shepard functioned well under pressure.

Kaidan approached Shepard as she finished launching a distress beacon, out of breath and his helmet in hand.

“Shepard!”

“Does it feel hot in here?” she replied. Kaidan looked relieved; Shepard was unharmed.

“Shut the fuck up. Alliance?” Kaidan shouted over the alarms as he pulled his helmet down over his face.

“Beacon has been launched.”

“Will they get here in time?”

“They’d better,” Shepard coughed, grabbed a fire extinguisher and turned her back to douse some flames. She paused, and turned to face Kaidan again. Stronger, now: “They’ll be here.”

Another explosion rocked the ship, throwing Kaidan into a wall. He grunted, wind knocked out of him.

“You all right?” Kaidan recovered quickly, standing as Shepard continued to tend to the flames; he was fine. “Get everyone onto the escape shuttles, fast as you can.”

“Joker’s still in the cockpit, he won’t abandon ship.” Shepard tossed the extinguisher to Kaidan. Kaidan paused. “I’m not leaving either.”

“Bullshit, Kaidan. I’ll grab Joker. Get everyone else off board.”

“Shepard--”

“I need you, Kaidan. Save them. I’ll be back. Go.”

Kaidan nodded, and began to make his way towards the evacuation shuttles. Shepard turned and headed for the front of the ship. She went as fast as she could, navigating through debris and flames, shielding her eyes. She found crew members tripping, running for their lives. She helped them to their feet, directed them towards the shuttle and Kaidan. She vaguely registered stepping over unmoving bodies: the dead. No time to stop, not now. Not yet.

Shepard neared the Command Center, or where it used to be – instead, she stood before a massive breach in the Normandy, a gaping expanse of space, contained by emergency kinetic barriers. Shepard activated her suit’s personal gravity and pressed on.

Walking through the vacuum was slow. Shepard found herself accounting for her team members, a habitual checklist, as she made her way.

_Kaidan: evac._

_Joker: cockpit, soon to be retrieved by myself and evacuated._

_Tali_ —

The non-Alliance crew members had departed from the Normandy two weeks ago, and Shepard hadn’t adjusted yet. She continued anyway.

_Tali: Migrant Fleet, safe._

Shepard’s heart skipped, faltered, her mouth dried.

_Ashley: dead._

Shepard took a breath _._

_Liara: Illium, safe._

_Wrex: Citadel, then to Tuchanka, safe._

_Garrus_ —at the thought of him, a strange feeling: confusing, confused.

_Garrus_ —

Shepard arrived at the other end of the void and stepped through the kinetic barrier on the other side to find Joker in at the helm, a glowing emergency mask surrounding his face.

“Joker! We have to go.”

“No!” He barely turned in his seat, his hands were flying across the controls, frantically attempting damage control. “I can’t leave the Normandy. I won’t abandon ship—I can still save her!”

“Jeff,” Shepard put her hand on Joker’s chair, and he paused, momentarily surprised at the unusual use of his given name. Joker turned fully back to the interface, the menus changing.

“I know, I know. All right, just let me—” Joker looked up, shock spreading across his face. “Fuck. Fuck! They’re pulling around for another attack.” Shepard looked at the Normandy’s screen and said nothing. She glanced behind them to the wreckage of the ship, just long enough to see a beam of light, another shot at the Normandy, making contact with what used to be the hull of the ship.

She grabbed Joker’s arm, pulled him up out of his seat and brought his hand over her shoulders, bearing part of his weight.

“Ow! Watch the arm!” Joker grimaced as they made their way to the emergency evacuation shuttle adjacent to the cockpit. Shepard slammed her fist on the control panel as they neared the shuttle, the pneumatic doors sliding open. She eased Joker inside, just as what remained of the ship began exploding, the light from the beam growing brighter. Shepard was thrown back by the blast, slamming into a wall. She made no sound. Teeth grit, she saw the devastation, the light growing brighter and brighter, fire and explosions ripping through the ship and towards them. She saw the shuttle’s ejection panel to her left. Then she saw Joker in the evac shuttle, leaning out, searching for her. Her jaw set. She made a decision.

Joker saw Shepard push off the wall, the gravity now completely gone, towards the ejection panel. Panic started in his chest; he wasn’t stupid.

“Commander!” Her hand poised above the button, she turned to look at him, her expression unreadable beneath her helmet.  A new beam stabbed the ship, separating them.

“Shepard!!” Joker screamed and Shepard heard him above the destruction. He rarely called her by name. He sounded scared. She turned and punched the eject. She had barely looked up to see if he had launched safely when she was thrown back and into the void by another blast. She rocketed away from the ship, nothing to stop her. She watched as bright, angry explosions enveloped the Normandy, strangely silent in the vacuum of space. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another object careening away from the Normandy: Joker’s shuttle. A blink of relief.

_Joker: shuttle; safe._

Shepard lifted her hand to activate her omnitool and a distress signal, but stopped as her helmet lit up and an alarm began to sound. Then she noticed the buzzing in her head. Then she noticed it was getting harder to breathe. She reached around to her oxygen tank, and found that the cord to her helmet was severed.

_Probably debris_ , Shepard thought greyly.

She started to struggle with the cord, attempting to mend it, reattach it. He limbs flailed with the effort. She started panting.

Shepard soon felt lightheaded. She stopped moving: an effort to conserve oxygen. She breathed deeply. She would not panic. Panic was useless right now. Panic wasted oxygen. She began her list again.

_Joker: shuttle; safe._

_Tali: Flotilla; safe._

_Wrex: practically indestructible; always safe._

_Liara: Illium; safe._

_Ashley: dead; safe._

_Kaidan: shuttle; safe._

_Garrus_ —there it was, that feeling again. Shepard was hazy.

_Garrus: Citadel; C-Sec_ ; _safe._

Then his face, his blue paint, his blue eyes, his blue visor. Blue. His laugh. His wave as he said goodbye. His back as he left the Normandy. His voice: _“Thank you Shepard. For taking me with you. I’m—uh. Thanks.”_

_Joker, Tali, Wrex, Liara, Kaidan, Ashley, Garrus._

Garrus looking at her sideways in the Mako.

_Safe. All safe._

Shepard felt still, cold, grey. She dimmed as she drifted further into space, falling towards the shadow of the planet that loomed nearby. Another deep breath. Another quick run through the list and another vision of blue, his blue.

Shepard closed her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> A work that exists mostly for my own satisfaction, although I certainly hope at least one other might enjoy it; perhaps it would be a nice addition to someone's play-through of ME2? Something to augement what Bioware already produced. Like a supplement. A delicious, xenophilic vitamin.  
> Perhaps some of the material is redundant; some scenes are from the game itself, merely fleshed out or slightly re-imagined; I imagine that may not be satisfying for many.
> 
> Working on developing a sexual encounter/encounters for the later chapters. Rating may alter when said chapter is produced. Waggly eyebrows.
> 
> Any commentary or helpful criticism would be much appreciated; I would love to update and improve the work, which is difficult when your audience consists of one, namely your own self.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eventually, news gets 'round.

**Two**

* * *

 

Garrus sat at his desk in C-Sec, frustrated by the amount of paperwork he had to complete. He had been back on the Citadel for two weeks, back at C-Sec for one, and his Spectre training application was being processed. He had been back for only seven days, but already he had uncovered and attempted to bust a slavery ring operating in the Wards. _Attempted_ was the frustrating part. Although he had enough evidence and surveillance footage to warrant a search of the club that fronted the ring, the owner had his hands all over Citadel politics, which made producing a warrant for his arrest exceedingly difficult. Garrus was reminded, not for the first time, of what he learned from Shepard. He needed to do things the right way, not the easy way. Busting down the door and shooting the bastard point blank would only cause chaos. Still, he thought, perhaps this paperwork isn’t the “right way” she meant. He wanted to operate by Shepard’s code, not his father’s “Do things right or don’t do them at all.” Garrus was interested in moral correctness and a low-to-nonexistent number of innocent lives lost, not in bulletproof forms and signatures.

Garrus sighed, leaned back in his chair and adjusted his visor. He decided he had had enough for today—a trip to the shooting range and a heaping dextro meal sounded like a good end to the day. Good enough. He went to the shooting range nearly every day to keep his sniper skills sharp – with the Reapers looming on the horizon, he never knew when he’d need them now.

When _she_ would need them.

He was reminded of the last message she had sent him.

**Things out here are boring, and I’m anxious—I don’t like fighting the geth when you and I both know there are bigger things out there. I feel helpless. And I wish you were here; I wish everyone was here. I need you at my six. Turians are good at taking bullets; you have more armor than I do.**

At that, he pushed himself away from his desk, perhaps a bit quickly, and stretched before rising. He made his way to the door and out of C-Sec headquarters, his hands at his collar as he pulled down his hardsuit, continuing to stretch his neck, particularly tight after looking at paperwork all—

Garrus stopped as he came out of C-Sec into the Zakera Ward. Usually a well-trafficked area, but there was more activity than usual today, and a low murmur running through the crowd. The same footage was playing on all the vidscreens that Garrus could see – very unusual for them to divert attention away from their typical advertisements. He looked over the heads of those in front of him, trying to make out what was on the screen. It was an image of a ship, looked like an Alliance vessel. Garrus could barely make out an N—

He pushed his way through the crowd, as quickly as he could, to get closer to the vid, not bothering to apologize to those he stepped on. As he got closer, he could hear a voice.

“—SSV Normandy reportedly attacked on the borders of the Terminus Systems. Famous for its defense of the Citadel during Saren and the geth’s attack last month, the surviving members of the Normandy’s crew maintain they were attacked by an unidentified ship.”

Garrus’s heart stopped. He could taste the word in his mouth, feel it rolling around. “Surviving”. It oozed as he thought about it. Fear started in his stomach. He could feel it burning its way through his skin; a prickling sensation. He wanted to scream:

_Who? Who survived? Who died?_

He immediately thought of her. Her face, her bright eyes. Her strange hair. The spots across her nose and cheeks – _freckles, right, freckles_. It was a reflex, a jerk. He grit his teeth; _no more of this_.

An image flashed onto the screen: the Normandy. Burning, in the shadow of a nearby planet. Explosions rippled through the ship. “Artist’s rendering” appeared across the bottom of the vid.

_What kind of sick fuck reproduces an explosion that killed…?_

“The ship’s navigator, one Mr. Pressly, perished in the initial explosion, according to crew members, as well as a handful of other technicians. Thanks to the quick thinking and leadership from the Normandy’s commanding officer, Commander Shepard, aided by Lieutenant Alenko, the casualties were remarkably few.”

The image on the screen changed. Suddenly, it was footage of Shepard, security recordings of their assault on Noveria. Another image of her was superimposed over the footage. Garrus’s heart fluttered erratically. Fear. Fear for his _commander_ , he reminded himself, his commander and his friend.

“Commander Shepard, first human Spectre and soldier within the Alliance military, recently drew the attention of the galaxy with her resounding defeat of Saren and his geth army here on the Citadel.”

Another vid. Shepard, on the Citadel, Wrex and Garrus at her side. In the vid, Shepard looked over her shoulder at Garrus.

“Commander Shepard has been reported missing by her crew. Pilot Jeff Moreau was the last to see her before evacuating the ship. Mr. Moreau confirmed that Commander Shepard loaded him into an evacuation shuttle, but at the last moment ejected the pod from the outside, according to Mr. Moreau, in order to save his life, as the SSV Normandy was collapsing around them. The Alliance was unable to recover a great deal of the Normandy. It is assumed that most of the wreckage was drawn into the gravitational pull of a nearby planet. Neither Commander Shepard’s body, nor any trace of her, has been found.”

Garrus’s heart kept beating, his lungs kept pumping, and the prickling feeling of fear on his neck and arms had stopped. The news continued; more renderings of the burning Normandy. The crowd, murmuring, began to depart. Garrus stayed where he stood. After a moment, he turned to his left, and continued on his way, towards the rapid transit. An itch started in his feet, underneath his armor. He kept walking.

_She’s…what? She’s missing?_

The itch slowly crept up his legs. He started to feel warm and he picked up his pace, just a little.

_She’s missing. She’s missing. She’s—_

An image, a memory. Glancing at her in the Mako. Her fingernails – strange, smooth, tiny. Her nose, also strange. All of her, strange. Her laugh. She looked at him.

He walked faster.

_She’s not missing. She can’t fucking be missing. It’s Shepard, nothing stops her. Nothing can stop her. She’ll call, soon, she’ll send a message or she’ll show up here, on the Citadel, bleeding and dirty but smiling. She’ll be here. She’ll be fine._

Garrus was past rapid transit. He continued, walking briskly, just short of jogging – he wouldn’t lose control, he wouldn’t run, not in the Wards. And why would he run? Why would he lose control? Everything was all right. He was anxious, certainly, but she, they, had had close calls before. Like that day in the Presidium, after they defeated Saren, when a hunk of Sovereign smashed into the Council Chamber. He had thought she was gone then. He had looked back as he was dragged from the rubble, panic starting to clench his throat, scanning for her. Then she climbed out of the debris, sooty, battered. Smiling. She had smiled at him. She wasn’t—

 _She’s not dead. Not yet. I’ll wait for her_.

Garrus kept walking.

_She’ll find me or I’ll find her. Somehow. I’ll wait._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirty days of waiting.
> 
> A brief chapter.

**Three**  

* * *

 Waiting on the Citadel lasted a month. Garrus spent thirty days at C-Sec. Every day, he would wake up, breakfast, clean, and dress, and take the rapid transit to work. He would check the news from his omnitool. Then, he would arrive at C-Sec Headquarters, make his way to his office, and begin the day. Usually some fieldwork, mostly paperwork. Lunch. A chat. More fieldwork. Or paperwork. He would end the day, and lock up his office. Receive commendations from his superior. Recount arrests. As he walked towards the transit every day, he would look at the vidscreen outside HQ, the one where he had seen the first news report. Then he would go home. Sometimes to Flux with his coworkers. Sometimes to the shooting range – he still had to keep sharp. For when she needed him again. He received regular messages from Tali and Liara, sometimes from Joker or Kaidan. Infrequently, Wrex.

* * *

 

**_Any news?_ **

**None out here. Some geth activity, nothing new.**

**_Any trace?_ **

**Not yet. I’m not giving up. How’s C-Sec?**

**_Fine – my father is proud of me. An arrest today._ **

**Oh really?**

* * *

 

**Vakarian. On Tuchanka. No word from my contacts. Don’t get fat at your cushy desk job. You turians need to worry about that. Krogan, on the other hand…**

 

* * *

**Garrus,**

**No word yet. Recently acquired a job as an information broker; it is surprisingly similar to archaeology. And useful in our search. I will send any tips your way, as well as any information on Citadel crime I can turn up – I’m sure that will brighten your day.**

**Liara**

* * *

**Hey.**

**The Alliance is still looking, but they aren’t putting much effort into it. I've been told we should all start grieving and move on. But we never do what we should, do we? I’ll come visit when I can.**

**Kaidan**

* * *

To quote Liara, the messages certainly brightened his days. His brow plate lifted when he received them, his eyes lit when he read them, and he chuckled sometimes as he typed responses.

He enjoyed his arrests, the nights at Flux with his coworkers, his hours spend at the shooting range. At least for the first two weeks, two weeks of waiting and watching and hoping.

Garrus didn’t realize it at the time, but a tiny part of him had begun coiling during those two weeks. As each post-Shepard day passed, it coiled a little tighter, like a hot spring. And each time it tightened, his world changed, tic by tic. In the months following the fall of the Normandy, Garrus realized that he did, in fact, separate his life into two different categories: life before Shepard, and life after. She had changed his life, that much was certain. She took him on the adventure of a lifetime, and for that he was grateful. She had trusted him. She had introduced him to a new way of thinking – perhaps it was all due to her human nature, perhaps it was something unique to Shepard, Garrus wasn’t sure. That was a lie he told himself; Garrus was sure. It was Shepard, specifically Shepard. But he couldn’t focus on that for too long. He couldn’t contemplate his unconscious separation of his life into two separate eras, eras defined entirely by her presence in his life. He couldn’t think about the slow introduction of a third era in his life, the era he was in now, one in which he knew Shepard, but one in which she was absent from his life again. He couldn’t. Not for too long, at least. He couldn’t afford it. Not now, when she was missing. Not now, when he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, what such thoughts could mean. Of what he thought—felt. About her.

_That’s enough, Vakarian. No more of this._

In that first month after Shepard’s disappearance, Garrus gradually lost the pleasure he found in the nights at Flux. He stopped telling stories. He stopped laughing at others’ stories. He stopped telling jokes. He stopped drinking, and stopped talking all together. Soon, he stopped attending. He cited excessive amounts of paperwork to explain his absences. Everyone understood with a chuckle.

He lost pleasure in other things, no longer chatting at work, lunches and breakfasts becoming more utilitarian. By the end of the fourth week, he found joy in few things, mainly the messages from his crew mates (at which he no longer laughed, only smiled fondly), the strength of his arms and the shock of a sniper rifle, and the gratification of knowing every perp he put away made the Citadel a cleaner place. He enjoyed taking out the trash. He greatly enjoyed it when the trash resisted. It gave him something real to fight.

But Garrus always, always checked the news every morning. He checked his messages every day. He watched the vidscreen every night. He hoped and he waited. And the coil inside him tightened. A part of him burned: his chest. He could feel it every night as he waited for sleep. It was strongest in the twilight between waking and sleeping, just before he drifted off and before he was fully awake in the morning—the flash of her green eyes. The hurt. He hurt. He _hurt._

Days passed, the coil tightened, and the hurt was buried under layers and layers of anger.

At the end of that month, Garrus was _really_ _fucking angry_.

Then he encountered and arrested the red sand smuggler. Then the smuggler gave up his supplier. On Omega. Outside of C-Sec’s reach.

 _Well fuck this_ , Garrus thought as he deposited his letter of resignation on his stunned superior’s desk. Garrus refused to acknowledge the surprised shouts and calls to return as he marched out of headquarters. He habitually rested his hand on the pistol at his side. _Out of my jurisdiction?_

 _Well,_ Garrus thought. _I have longer arms and a better reach than you._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new life.

**Four**

* * *

It was good, Garrus thought, that he still loved taking out the trash, because Omega was fucking filthy.

After...collecting the red sand supplier, and a vorcha harassing an elderly couple, Garrus had found Sidonis. The two of them had spent the next six months recruiting a team of like-minded individuals with specific sets of skills and fighting crime the only way one gets things done on Omega: extra-legally.

So here they were, one year after Garrus first arrived on Omega. They had a hideout now, in an abandoned warehouse, far from Afterlife and Aria T’Loak. Garrus respected her, but didn’t like her. They had been on the same side on a number of occasions in the last six months, but now Garrus’s opposition of the Blue Suns was beginning to affect Aria’s business. She was smart, ruthless, and protective of her own interests. Garrus was currently counter to said interests.

Garrus had eked out his personal quarters on the second floor of the warehouse. The first floor was a large open area, the second consisted of smaller rooms hugging the outside wall, a walkway and a railing, and in the center of the second floor, only open air looking down onto the floor below. Defensible. Aesthetically pleasing. Good for yelling insults to his drunken team below.

They were drunk now, playing poker in the common area and regaling one another with stories. Comparing shots. Sharing thankful messages addressed to “Archangel and his team” that had been posted on the extranet. Garrus chuckled. He was reluctantly fond of just about all of them. But he was tired, too tired, and retired to his room.

Garrus sat on his bed, exhausted. He released a sigh as he removed parts of his hardsuit, easing his cowl up and over his head. He checked his omnitool for any news before removing it.

 _Habits_ , he thought, and chuffed, a quiet laugh. He knew she was dead now. She.

He would no longer say her name.

 _That’s over. It’s over._ He sighed again, exhaling; he was done thinking about this. He placed his omnitool beside his bed.

Garrus considered his visor as he readied to remove it. On a whim, he decided to go through the files stored within it– he wasn’t quite ready for bed yet.

He opened the interface and a blue screen filled his vision. “Recently played” audio files sprung into focus—Garrus stopped at the soundtrack for “Fleet and Flotilla”.

_Aw hell, that’s embarrassing._

He was tempted to erase all trace of that particular file, not that anyone else would ever use his visor and see, but simply because knowing it was there and he enjoyed it mortified him.

Garrus hesitated, then kept it.

He dug deeper into his old files: music he didn’t listen to anymore, such as Excel 10’s “Gun in My Hands, Love in My Heart” (deleted); recordings of criminals’ confessions he had taken prior to turning them in (deleted); a photo of a plasma canon that had been giving Tali trouble (deleted); Wrex’s demo of his new missile launcher (deleted).

Garrus scrolled through photos and vids with his left hand, clearing as he went until he came upon a vid he didn’t recognize. His mandibles clicked and he stretched his neck to the right as he opened it, curious as to what it was.

An image of what Garrus assumed was the floor filled his vision, soon, the tips of his feet. It was first person, shot from his visor. Garrus blinked. More of Garrus’s feet, blue boots on, more of the steel floor, then a voice.

“Garrus, c’mon, I’m tired of waiting. I’m ready to rob you!”

It was Joker, Garrus realized. Garrus heard himself, his past self, laugh loudly. The camera tilted upwards.

Garrus saw the crew deck. The mess hall, shrouded in its usual orange glow.

The Normandy.

In his bedroom, the hand resting on Garrus’s knee closed gently into a fist.

“Your confidence is precious, Joker," Garrus said. "Be sure not to try too hard. We don’t want you straining yourself and breaking both your arms. What are your bones made out of again? Glass?”

“Ha ha, Vakarian. Very funny. My bones are strong enough to hold together while I whoop your ass.”

The camera approached the table as the Garrus of the past walked forward. Joker was seated at the opposite head of the table, surrounded by Tali, Wrex, Kaidan, Liara, and even Engineer Adams. In the center of the table between all of them, cards had been doled out and “valuables” had been displayed: a bottle of wine, a pistol, a pristine Fornax magazine. Past-Garrus seated himself at the table, and laid his own betting materials out: various and sundry weapon mods, as expected, as well as two bars of chocolate.

“All right, are we all finally here?” Joker continued. “I swear, if you all were any fucking slower, I could probably take the pot and limp away before any of you caught me.”

“Don’t test me, little man,” Wrex didn’t even look up from his cards. “You run off with that pistol, and I have no problem breaking every bone in your fleshy little body.”

“You wouldn’t hurt a cripple, would you Wrex?”

“Broken bones make you stronger, human.” Wrex grunted.

“All right then, how about your pilot?”

“Room for one more?” a new voice interjected, off the screen to the right.

In his bedroom, Garrus’s breath stopped. His heart stopped. Everything stopped.

The camera had barely begun to turn towards the voice when she slid into frame and into the empty seat to the right. Her. It’s her it’s—

“All right, nerds, get ready, because I’m about to crush you all.” Shepard said as she relaxed in her chair.

“What’s a nerd?” Wrex asked. “Doesn’t sound very intimidating.”

While Shepard was dealt in, she turned towards the camera, towards Garrus in his little room on Omega. She reached her hand up to the left side of his face, touching his visor.

“There’s a light on.”

“I’m recording.”

“What, you’re cheating?” she smiled cheekily.

“No, just for posterity’s sake.”

“For posterity? And what is so important about this poker game that you feel the need to record it for the good of the future?”

“Because this is the day I beat Commander Shepard.”

She gasped, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile, her eyes alight.

He continued. “Someone else may need to know how in the future. I thought I could leave them step-by-step instructions.”

Shepard threw her head back and laughed, utterly genuine. She looked at him, grinning.

“Garrus Vakarian, you bastard. You’ll never take me. Just you wait.” She looked him in the eyes as her smile softened. When she turned back to her cards, the camera didn’t leave her face. Instead, it hesitated on her profile, lingering on her as she looked down and studied her hand. After a moment, her eyes flicked back to the camera, back to Garrus, and she cast him another side-long smile.

Then Garrus, in his bedroom, stopped the vid.

The air in the room felt too tight, his skin felt too tight, everything felt too tight. The stopped vid still consumed the screen and her face filled Garrus’s vision. She was, devastatingly, achingly, all he saw: her green, bright eyes; her freckles; her nose; the scars that cut through her lip and eyebrow; the side of her mouth that quirked higher than the other when she smiled. All of it completely strange, all alien, all utterly her, all utterly, completely—

 _This is not--_ , Garrus thought.

_This is a bad, bad idea, and you have to stop it. Now._

The hurt was bubbling up, somewhere inside him. His missing her. _Fuck_ , his missing her. And memories. And all his quiet, impossible—

 _No,_ he thought.

_You can’t. You don’t. Don’t._

He took a breath; he hadn’t realized he had stopped breathing.

 _She’s dead. She’s dead and gone and she’s not coming back_.

Garrus closed his eyes, shut them against Shepard. He took a moment. He took a breath. He released the knee he had been gripping and relaxed his shoulders. He took another moment. Then he took off his visor, laid it down next to his omnitool, and turned off the light.

But not before saving that still from the vid.

He did not delete that recording.

But the next morning, he stopped checking the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you all to know I have this whole endeavor saved under "more stupid fanfiction".


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuck between a rock and a lot of guns.

**Five**  

* * *

 

The bridge was failing. Garrus and his team had stationed themselves in a building in the Kima District on Omega for the past week. It was more defensible than their warehouse and more anonymous; the building in Kima wasn’t home. They had been planning a guerrilla assault on a group of nearby Blue Suns mercs, taking smaller pockets of mercenaries out one by one. They knew they were starting to attract the attention of all the major players on Omega. They needed to be ready to sustain a counter-strike, and the bridge leading to their temporary hideout suited their needs just fine. It would have been easy to hold off an attack with a full team. Now their team consisted of a turn-coat, ten cold, unmoving bodies, and Garrus Vakarian.

Dead, all of them.

Soon, Garrus would probably be dead too.

Garrus took another shot. His bullet ripped out of his sniper rifle, crossing space quickly before it made contact with his target’s skull: vorcha, Blood Pack. The vorcha stiffened from the shock of the impact, then crumpled unceremoniously to the floor. No blood, no gore, no screams. A clean shot to the head.

Garrus cranked back the bolt, the now empty thermal clip clacking to the ground, and reloaded his gun.

One down, one million more to go.

Garrus had lost count of the mercs he had dropped that day. If he kept track of the numbers, he’d probably fold; comprehending the amount of lives he had taken, and the impossibly high numbers of those he’d have to take if he wanted to get out of here alive? Nearly everyone would lose hope and admit defeat.

But he didn’t think about it. He wanted to get out of there alive.

If only to watch Sidonis burn.

That bastard had sunk a bullet into the backs of nearly all of their squadmates. Sidonis had lured Garrus away from their hideout, no doubt to allow a skilled member of the Suns or the Eclipse or whatever the fuck their names were to systematically assassinate every other member of their team. Which they did. By the time Garrus returned, everyone but Erash and Meirin was dead. And Garrus had waited with the two that remained until they’d bled out. That was yesterday. Sidonis, it turns out, had emptied his accounts and fled Omega just a few hours before. That left eleven in the team, ten of which had already been taken care of.

Not Archangel, though. Archangel they wanted alive, alone, and afraid.

 _Well, I’ll only let them have two out of the three._ Garrus took another shot. _I think that’s generous._

Perhaps they’d take him sooner rather than later; Garrus was enduring but only barely. He was exhausted; the onslaught had lasted for fourteen hours now. His arms were beginning to shake. His hunger was catching up with him. His eyesight was, at times, unsteady. An Eclipse mech came into focus. He took a shot. The mech dropped out of focus.

 _This isn’t getting any easier_. Reload.

Garrus activated his visor. Then “Die for the Cause”.

He timed his shots, developing a rhythm, falling into a pattern that allowed him to detach from what he was doing. He relaxed, minutely, and his mind wandered, initially to his visor, then his music, then to the secret he kept buried beneath months of files, a secret he only allowed himself to draw out and examine late at night, in the quiet, and very infrequently.

The recording of her laugh. The memory of her reaching towards him.

The image of her face.

First, he thought of her. Then his promise to her. Then the Normandy. Then his friends, the messages he had stopped answering and eventually stopped receiving. Then all the lives he had failed. Then, of course, his father.

“Do things right or don’t do them at all.”

Do things right? Fuck, when had he ever not been wrong? It used to be his mistakes, his shortcomings only meant that he would get a rap on the knuckles. Worst case scenario, he would die alone. Now his hubris, his ego, and his anger had led him to believe he could be a leader, maybe make a difference, and maybe do what she would have done, in some strange, fucked-up way. But he couldn’t. Because of him, ten people, _his_ people, were dead. They had trusted him and he failed them. Like he had failed her. Like he had failed his father.

Garrus started: an idea. Stupid, sure, but once he had it, it felt right. He turned off the music.

_This is a terrible idea._

He couldn’t do right by his team, or by her, but perhaps he could set some things straight.

_Royally bad._

This was something he could do, while he still had the time and full use of his arms. Garrus activated his visor’s audio communications, and drew up a contact he had not used in a very long time.

_I must be a fucking idiot._

The call went through.

“Yes?”

“Dad?” Garrus croaked. Shit, his throat was drier than he had thought.

There was silence on the other line: a pause. On Garrus’s end, there was a rush of voices on the other side of the bridge. More shots rang out and a pressurized crate exploded.

“Sounds hairy. How many are there?” Unflappable, and immediately down to business; his father had not changed.

“Enough.” Another shot from Garrus’s rifle.

“Mmm.”

“Dad,” a shot. “I realize it’s been awhile.” Another crank of the rifle, the click of a thermal clip hitting the floor. “I don’t know how much time I have, so I’m going to cut right to the chase.”

His father was silent: he was listening; permission to continue.

“I’m not the son you wanted,” Garrus continued. “I tried, and I’m not. Honestly, I don’t think I’m a very good turian. I have absolutely no love for rules or bureaucracy or, frankly, conventional military service. But I’m a fighter. So I found other ways.” Gunshots. Garrus paused.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I failed you and I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I didn’t—” Garrus paused, unsure how to continue. “I didn’t understand,” he repeated, “I didn’t understand you or all those things you said about ‘doing things right’, but I think maybe I’ve finally grown up a little and now I’m beginning—“

“Garrus,” his father cut him off. “It doesn’t matter.” The onslaught had eased for the moment. Across the bridge, it seemed they were gathering their forces in an attempt to storm the building. Garrus breathed heavily, catching his breath, leaning his back against the wall.

“Finish your target practice,” his father continued, “and get yourself back home. To Palaven.”

Garrus heard a swell of voices beyond the bridge. He dropped down, hiding behind a low wall that overlooked the scene below, and readied his rifle. He brought the scope up to his eye as a new wave of mercenaries poured out onto the bridge. He scanned for his first target.

“Your mother will be happy to see you. She’s been doing well lately.”

A group of three broke out from the larger pool of mercs, one pushing ahead of the other two and making his way towards cover. They were the closest to Garrus. They would be the first to go. Garrus waited for his target to emerge from behind a crate.

“Solana misses you too.”

Garrus spotted his target’s shoulder, sticking out to the right of the crate, and recognized an insignia on their arm. One very familiar to him. Garrus’s head jerked, slightly.

“We’ll all be happy to see you.”

Garrus’s target stood, suddenly, and jumped over the crate. In that moment, Garrus registered several things:

His father would be happy to see him;

His mother was doing well;

He definitely recognized that insignia;

He recognized that walk;

He recognized her.

For a moment, it felt like time stopped. Garrus’s chest suddenly felt cold and electric. This wasn’t possible. She wasn’t possible. It was a trick, he thought, it couldn’t be her, that wouldn’t make any sense. It was utterly impossible.

Garrus shot a vorcha several meters behind his original target.

_It’s not…it can’t be. It couldn’t be her, but on the off chance, on the remote possibility that it is…_

This one, he would let cross. Garrus felt something stir in his gut, his chest still fluttering and erratic.

“Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

She (at least the person he hoped, he felt, was _she_ ) was moving closer, but slowly. Too slowly. Garrus needed to speed her up. He loaded his rifle with a concussive round.

“I think my odds just got a hell of a lot better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by and loosely follows the Dark Horse comic "Mass Effect: Homeworlds #3", subtitled "A Bullet For Your Sins". The comics do an amazing job at fleshing out several characters from the ME universe and giving the audience some context. They're all great; I suggest you check them out!
> 
> Here is a link to the comic!
> 
> http://www.darkhorse.com/Comics/20-460/Mass-Effect-Homeworlds-3-Anthony-Palumbo-cover
> 
> It is so important to give credit where credit is due!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to catch up

          **Six**

* * *

 

           It felt good to be back in action. Shepard wasn’t sure what, exactly, was going on. She didn’t trust Jacob, definitely didn’t trust Miranda, _definitely_ did not trust the Illusive Man. Her team was missing; she at least had Joker back, and a new and improved Normandy.

          Her world had changed. The Collectors were somehow connected to the Reapers: another threat to combat. She was at odds with the Alliance. She had no idea where half of her crew was, and they probably all assumed she was dead. Well, she had been. For two years. Perhaps the worst of all (and she would only admit this to herself when it was very late and she was looking out into the stars from her bed in her quarters), Shepard wasn’t sure who she was. When she looked in the mirror at the cybernetic implants that glowed beneath her skin, she wasn’t sure if she was even human anymore. That she was herself. Shepard. That she wasn’t just a clone or some advanced AI.

            But searching for Mordin, fighting mercenaries and rescuing Archangel? A welcome distraction. She felt useful then. It gave her a goal, something to pursue, something clear to fight, something to work towards.

            Shepard functioned well under pressure.

            She, Miranda, and Jacob were almost to the entrance to the concrete building that housed Archangel. An Eclipse commando suddenly ran up from behind, overtaking them and storming the building. Shepard ran after her.

            _This might blow our cover…_

            Shepard approached the asari from behind. Shepard ignited her biotics, right hand glowing blue, grabbed her target, and slammed her into the ground. Done.

            _No time like the present. We’re close enough_.

            “All right, people, let’s move!” Shepard shouted as she ushered Jacob and Miranda into the building. Miranda, once inside, activated her omnitool and detonated several charges she had planted expertly along the bridge, frying tech and people alike.

            “That should buy us some time.” Miranda neatly closed her omnitool. Professional. Maybe a bit smug.

            Shepard moved to the front and led the way up the stairs, to the right at the landing, and into a room overlooking the bridge. A large body wearing in a blue hardsuit crouched beneath the windows on the opposite side of the room. They popped up, readied their sniper rifle on the windowsill, and took a shot. Out on the bridge, the staccato sound of a turret abruptly ceased.

            Shepard brought her hands up to her helmet.

            _If I’m not vulnerable, they certainly won’t be. May be risky, but it’s all I can do…_

Shepard’s helmet detached from her suit with a hiss, and she slid it up and over her head. She shook out her hair, longer after two comatose years (two years, she couldn’t believe it). She realized she was probably very sweaty.

            “Archangel?” she ventured.

            The body on the other side of the room stood. They moved away from the window towards a pile of crates to the left.

            _He’s turian,_ Shepard realized, noticing the shape of Archangel’s helmet. She thought, reflexively, about another turian she knew. Only for a moment.

            Archangel propped his sniper up against a crate and, with his back to them, removed his helmet, setting it beside his rifle. He turned, then, sat, and propped his leg up on a box before him. He met Shepard’s eyes. Her voice, her breath, caught in her throat.

            “Shepard.”

            _It couldn’t be._

Her heart fluttered, she could feel it all through her chest and in her throat. Confusing. Shepard was confused. Like before, on the Normandy. Before it blew up. Even before then, earlier, on the Citadel and in the Mako, but more subtly.

            Now, Shepard felt a number of things welling up inside her: confusion, relief, anxiety, fear, comfort, elation.

            “Garrus!” she shouted. Shepard was surprised, shock spread across her face, then she grinned; she couldn’t help it. She probably said his name a little too loudly too. She could see Miranda and Jacob in her peripheral, eyeing her. She needed to calm down. She didn’t. “Garrus, what the hell are you doing here?”

            “Oh, you know,” Garrus replied. His voice was definitely deeper, more flanging. “Target practice.” He stretched his neck to the right, maintaining eye contact. “Have to stay sharp.”

            _He’s dirty_ , she noticed. _Haggard_. She took him in: his posture; his damaged suit; his face; the markings across his nose and cheeks. His blue.

            _His eyes are…different_ , Shepard thought. _He looks severe. And older. And more…_

            Dangerous.

            _He’s tired._ Shepard set these thoughts aside.

            “You’re Archangel?” Shepard continued. Garrus’s eyes broke away from hers.

            “Ah, yes. Apparently it’s the name the locals gave me for all my good deeds.”

            “Should I start calling you Archangel, then?”

            “Absolutely not,” He was joking, but his voice was grave. He brought his eyes back to hers. “It’s just Garrus to you.”

            Shepard’s breath hitched, just barely. She looked away.

            “How’d you end up on Omega?” she asked. Shepard looked around the room.

            “Got a bit fed up with C-Sec and the Council when they couldn’t manage to pull their heads out of their asses. Felt like I wasn’t making a difference. Especially after Saren and the Reapers. Followed a lead about a smuggler on Omega and never left,” he said.

            “Two years?”

            Garrus laughed. It sounded like a cough. “Two years.”

            Shepard noticed the yellow foil of a body bag in the far corner of the room. Several bags, in fact. She frowned slightly.

            “Bodies?” she asked.

            “My team.” Shepard’s head turned sharply. She looked at Garrus, her expression unreadable. He met her eyes. “Archangel didn’t work alone.” Garrus broke away and looked off in the direction opposite the body bags. He offered no more, and Shepard felt, knew, she shouldn’t push. Her brows knit. She paused.

            “All right,” Shepard said. Garrus looked back at her and she met his gaze. She readied her shotgun in one hand, her helmet in the other. Shepard pumped the fore end of her gun, the empty clip dropping to the floor. “How the hell are we gonna get you out of here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter! Sorry guys.
> 
> I'll be out of town for a few days, but updating when I get back. The next one will be longer!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rockets to the face are never good

**Seven**

* * *

 

There was blood everywhere. Blue blood. His blood.

_Aw, shit._

Garrus had been disoriented by a bright light, but now everything was flooding back to him. There had been a missile. Now he was on his side, in a pool of his blood, the right half of his face burning. As quickly as everything had come back to him, it started to leave. Garrus was fading, his sight weakening, his eyes closing.

“Garrus!” Shepard’s voice, panicked, reached him over the sounds of gunfire.

 _Shepard_. That’s right, Shepard was here.

 _I knew she’d be back._ Garrus wanted to laugh, but all he could produce was a gargling sound.

 _Oh. That’s a lot of blood_ , Garrus thought very vaguely. Everything was becoming vague.

Suddenly, the world around him was indigo. Whatever Garrus looked at was bright, rippling, convulsing. He felt something on his face. It was getting into his mouth. Confused, he weakly attempted to lift his head, but found that he couldn’t; there was a weight. Something was on top of him. Slowly, Garrus started to register what was happening around him. Shepard had thrown herself across him. She was pressing her face into his chest. Her hair was on his face. It was getting into his mouth. He realized Shepard had enveloped the both of them in a compact biotic barrier; that explained why everything looked purple. Something hurtled towards them with a whistle and collided with the barrier, erupting into light and producing and explosive boom. Shepard drew her head up, hair wild and clinging to the sweat on her face, her eyes fierce, alive. She put her hand to her ear.

“Joker, do you copy? I need evac, now! Get Mordin onboard, it’s a medical emergency. It’s Garrus. He’s lost a lot of blood. Hurry,” Shepard turned her head, shouting over her shoulder. “Jacob, Miranda, I need that gunship out of the picture! Bring it down!”

“Yes ma’am!” a voice shouted. Male. Shepard turned back to Garrus and saw his eyes were open.

“Garrus!” she looked down at him, examining his face. “Shit. Shit.” Another explosion against the barrier. She brought her eyes back to his and placed her hand on the right side of his face. “Stay with me, Garrus. Stay with me, okay?” He felt her other hand squeeze in-between his back and the floor, awkwardly cradling him. Some of Shepard’s hair fell into her face.

 _That’s not good_. Garrus began to move his right arm. He needed to fix it; Shepard wouldn’t be able to see. He tried to lift his hand to her face, but before he could, Shepard pulled her hand from Garrus’s right cheek, brushing the hair from her eyes and quickly replacing her hand in an effort to staunch the blood. Garrus looked at the long, cobalt blue streak that was left across Shepard’s nose and eye. His blood.

 _Well, that’s really not good. She might be allergic._ Shepard made no effort to wipe it away. Her eyes didn’t move from his.

“You’re gonna be all right,” She said. “Joker’s on his way. You’re gonna be all right, Garrus.” Garrus’s head was buzzing, and he felt tired, very, very tired, he just needed to—

“C’mon, Garrus, I just found you again,” she interrupted. “You can’t leave me already,” A comforting smile glanced briefly across Shepard’s face. “Stay with me.”

Garrus’s eyes slipped closed. He wanted to stay. It was her, Shepard, his—oh no, he couldn’t say that, not _his_ , damn that would be embarrassing—Shepard. In the flesh. With her alien hair and nose and eyes and her pretty smile. Wait, did he think she was pretty? That wouldn’t make any sense: she was a human, very not-turian, very soft and not at all angular and…

 _Shit_.

Yeah, he thought she was pretty.

 _Damn. Definitely not good_.

She was back. She was back and she was here with him. She was touching him. Suddenly Garrus realized he couldn’t feel her touching his face; he knew her hand was there, though, on his cheek. That was strange. Maybe she could move it to the other side… He relaxed. This was a relief. Shepard and Vakarian, together again.

“Don’t worry, I’m not attracted to you. It’s purely an aesthetic thing. I just missed you. Don’t let it go to your head,” Garrus tried to say. What he heard instead was an ugly, wet gurgling.

“Garrus.” Her voice was a whisper. Garrus found he couldn’t open his eyes.

 _Shepard_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! School started and things got crazy.
> 
> Short chapter. More to come.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's good to be back

**Eight**

* * *

 

Garrus lived.

Albeit with half his face gone, but he was definitely alive. Dr. Chakwas and Mordin had done what they could for Garrus: cybernetic implants, stem cells, the works. After the surgery, when Garrus had awakened, he found himself in a room identical to the Normandy’s med bay. He groaned, and Karin Chakwas was quickly at his side.

“Garrus,” she said fondly. She had always been kind to him. A good woman.

“Dr. Chakwas.” Garrus’s throat was dry, his speech slow. “How nice to see you.”

“Likewise, although it’s unfortunate we should meet under these circumstances. I would’ve much preferred a reunion over brandy, as opposed to finding you almost entirely bled out on my operating table,” Chakwas smiled, her eyes warm. “But, such are the times. I expect you’re rather disoriented?” She handed Garrus a glass of water she had retrieved from a table nearby.

“Just a bit. Would you mind explaining what’s going on?”

Garrus drank the water gratefully as Dr. Chakwas briefly explained: Shepard’s miraculous reappearance, Cerberus, the Collectors, Jacob, Miranda, the Normandy SR-2, and her presence onboard.

“Dr. Solus and I patched you up as best we could, but you’re still healing,” Chakwas contined. Garrus brought his hand up to his right cheek and felt the bandage there. “Your current bandage is designed for long-term wear. I recommend you keep it on for the forseeable future; it will not impede your work. There will be some scarring, Garrus, but if your recovery proceeds as we predicted, you can undergo reconstructive surgery at a later date.”

“Where is she now?” Garrus carefully placed his cup down on the table next to him. Chakwas chuckled.

“Shepard? Of course, of course.” She smiled again. “She’s in the conference room near the CIC. She left not too long ago. It’s unfortunate you woke up now; she’s visited so frequently over the last two days, I swear she’s barely left your side.”

“Thank you, Dr. Chakwas.” Garrus stood deliberately, feeling a little unsteady.

“Of course, Garrus. You are a dear friend; it’s my pleasure. Although, as happy as I am to provide you medical care, I do hope you’ll avoid explosive missiles in the future?”

Garrus chuckled. “No promises.”

“Good thing I’m here, then.”

Shepard looked surprised, then immensely relieved when she saw Garrus appear in the doorway of the conference room. For a moment, he just looked at her, heart in his throat. _This was real_. He recovered quickly.

“Shepard. No one would give me a mirror. How bad is it?”

A grin burst onto her face. “Hell, Garrus, you were always ugly. Slap some face paint on there and no one will notice.”

Garrus started to laugh (first time in a long time, he realized). He felt bubbly; _this is so easy, talking to her, it feels_ —Garrus was abruptly cut short.

“Ah!” Garrus put his hand to his right cheek. “Dammit, Shepard, don’t make me laugh. My face is barely holding together as it is.” Garrus smiled a little, mandibles pulling away from his jaw, his brow plate lifting. A strange feeling overcame him. He joked. “You know, some women find facial scars attractive.” _Shit_ , maybe he shouldn’t have said that. “Mind you, most of them are krogan…”

Shepard laughed and met his eyes. “Most.” She turned back to the conference table, pulling up a holographic menu. “Don’t worry, buddy. I think your odds are still pretty decent.” She threw him a side-long glance and smiled before continuing her work. “I’m glad you’re up. Gimme a minute and I’ll show you around.”

That had been three weeks ago. Since then, Shepard had continued to good-naturedly mock him, and Garrus had gotten used to his new appearance. Seeing his bandages in the mirror had been disorienting at first. Initially, because it was so foreign. Then, because it reminded Garrus of Omega: his team; Sidonis; his mistakes. But he adjusted.

Garrus emerged from the main battery late, so late it was early, two days after the Normandy’s encounter with the Collectors on Horizon. He habitually cracked his neck to either side, stiff from working on the Normandy’s cannons and weapons array. Garrus was passing into the mess hall, on his way to the bathroom, when he noticed Shepard at the dining table. She was wearing a large, grey, Alliance sweatshirt and loose-fitting pants, her hair disheveled. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. A cup of something steamed on the table before her. She held it between her hands, staring off into space.

“Hey,” Garrus ventured gently. Shepard’s eyes refocused and she looked towards him, a bit startled. She relaxed, smiling almost imperceptibly.

“Hey,” Shepard replied softly.

“What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep. What about you?”

“Someone has to keep this ship running.”

“Ha.”

“Want some company?”

Shepard smiled again. “Sure.”

Garrus crossed to the table, taking the seat opposite her. He relaxed onto the table in front of him, leaning on his forearms.

“Something on your mind?” he asked her. She chuckled.

“When isn’t there?”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Shepard paused.

“You don’t have to, of course,” Garrus said. “Maybe this is too touchy-feely for a hardened marine like yourself.” He tried to break the tension that had suddenly appeared. “Or if you want, Shepard, I can find someone else. You don’t have to talk about this with me.” Shepard interrupted him.

“Oh, shut up. Too touchy-feely my ass. I’d like to talk about it. I’d like to talk about it with you, Garrus.” She looked at him. Garrus, unsure of what to say, remained silent, but held her gaze and shifted his weight; he was listening. Shepard continued. Her voice was soft and low.

“I’m sorry if I’m not very articulate about everything. And I don’t want to talk about it too much, it can be…overwhelming.” Shepard looked down into her cup again. “I’m worried about the Collectors, obviously. About the people we can’t save. The ones we didn’t get to in time. And who knows if they’ll keep targeting humans, or expand and begin taking other races. We don’t even know what the Collectors _are_ , what their motivations are, what they’re capable of, how, exactly, they’re connected to the Reapers. And Cerberus. I don’t know what the fuck is up with them,” Shepard laughed, not pleasurably. “They’re pro-human, sure, so pro-human it makes me a little nervous. Most people think they’re a terrorist group. And I’m not entirely sure yet if I can trust Jacob or Miranda, and I somehow have to assemble a crew out of the people we’ve been picking up. A tank-bred krogan and a hostile convict, to start. And then there’s Kaidan.”

Something inside Garrus jerked when she said his name. He kept his body still, revealing nothing. Suddenly, he remembered the way Kaidan had looked at Shepard on Horizon, how he had spoken to her. _“Losing you was like losing a limb. It tore me apart.”_ When Garrus had heard that _,_ his stomach and fist had clenched, and he had suddenly been reminded of all the times he had seen Kaidan watching her aboard the SR-1, the moments Kaidan had spent deep in conversation with Shepard, rumors about his affection for her. Years ago, Garrus had noted it, but felt little. On Horizon, it had made him angry _._ No longer in the heat of the moment, now he felt embarrassed and childish. But his feelings were unimportant now. Shepard continued.

“Speaking about it is difficult, but he…what he said, it…well, it scared me.” Garrus looked at Shepard then. She seemed smaller than usual. “I had thought a lot of those things before. Like if I’m even…” She rubbed her mouth with the palm of her hand. “Hearing them from Kaidan was…pretty awful,” Shepard chuckled painfully. “And watching him walk away…mmm.” Shepard finished with a murmur. She pursed her lips thoughtfully and her brow furrowed.

“That’s a lot to think about.”

“Yeah.”

“Kaidan’s wrong.”

Shepard looked up at him, surprised. She paused.

“What?”

“He’s wrong about you. I’m not exactly sure if he’s wrong about Cerberus, but he’s definitely wrong about you. You’re you. You’re one hundred percent you,” Garrus said. Shepard still looked surprised. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you, Shepard, a lot about you that I still have to learn, but I am very certain of this: you are good. That is something you always hold onto. You would only do this, work with Cerberus, for the right reasons. Shepard, you have good instincts and you’re brutally smart; you know this is connected to the Reapers. Kaidan—“ Garrus paused; this was difficult. _“It tore me apart.”_ Why was this so difficult? “Kaidan cares about you. He’s a good man. But you know how cautious he can be. He over-analyzes everything. And he’s probably still hurting. From losing you. Maybe he lashed out, maybe he’s scared, but I don’t think even he truly doubts you,” Garrus finished. Shepard’s expression had changed, now unreadable. Her brows were knit.

“I know what I say doesn’t really make a difference; you’re still hurt. I’m sorry I can’t offer more. Maybe I’m not very good at this. I don’t think most turians are. We’re good for shooting things, not much else.”

“No,” Shepard replied quickly, “no, it was…” Shepard put her face into her hands. “I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing: I don’t really have the words. I’m grateful. I am so, so grateful.” She pulled her hands away and looked at him. “Thank you.”

Garrus’s heart was in his throat again. It felt like it was simultaneously swelling and being ripped apart. “You’re welcome. Shepard, I’m always here, when you need me.” Garrus leaned back in his chair. “One day he’ll come around. One day. He’ll come back to you.”

Shepard laughed, a real laugh this time, groaned, and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “God, Garrus, you make it sound like he and I are in love. Jesus.”

Garrus started. _What?_ Garrus thought again about the way Kaidan would always gravitate towards Shepard on the SR-1, the way he leaned into her.Garrus pressed forward, but joking. Joking was safe. “What, you mean to tell me you aren’t? A commander and her very sexy lieutenant, saving the galaxy from a Reaper and its army of synthetics? Sounds inevitable to me.”

“You know me, I love to defy inevitabilities. Such as death.”

“Right, right, forgot about that. So you mean to tell me you never?...”

“Jesus, absolutely not.”

“But he’s cute, right? I’ve heard he’s cute.”

“Yes, Garrus, Kaidan is very cute.”

“Well,” Garrus said, “if I were you, I would’ve jumped right on that.”

“No you wouldn’t!”

“Oh yes I would! Excellent stress relief during that whole debacle with Saren. And he seems like the romantic type. I would’ve loved some flowers.”

Shepard laughed again.

“Don’t worry,” Garrus said, more serious now. He wanted to cover her hand with his, touch her somehow, but he didn’t. “I think he’ll come around, Shepard. He’s part of the team. He’s one of us.” Shepard, for what seemed like the twentieth time that night, smiled at him. Garrus felt that strange flutter in his chest again. He was getting very warm. Garrus rose, bid her goodbye, and finally made his way to the bathroom.

He thought again about her fears, everything weighing on her, and how small she had, just for a moment, looked, and vowed to do all he could to support her. He had her back, she had his. Shepard and Vakarian. She didn’t need saving, but, he thought, she needed a friend. A true friend. And he was, could be, that. Absolutely. Completely.

He also thought about how she had laughed at the thought of being with Kaidan, and at that a part of him, one he typically attempted to ignore, felt giddy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is different

**Nine**

* * *

 

Oh, fuck. This was new.

Shepard had bought Garrus a gift. That wasn’t the new thing and, well, calling it a gift would be a stretch, but she knew he would like it. The previous week, he had mentioned a few modifications he wanted to make to the Normandy’s Thanix canon that would require some new tools and hardware.

“You know what they say. Something about a good offense, killing some Collectors, blowing up some ships. People say that, right?”

Only problem with the new tools and hardware: not entirely legal. Therefore, very difficult to get ahold of. Garrus knew, and had requested some legal, less powerful dupes that would serve nicely, although they weren’t exactly ideal. Shepard, however, thought he deserved the best. Improving the Normandy’s defenses was near the top of everyone’s list of priorities, especially Shepard’s after the last encounter she had had with a Collector ship. If Garrus knew of a way to make the Normandy safer, she would provide him with exactly what he needed, not some cheap, albeit maybe safer, knock-offs.

She also, admittedly, wanted to make him happy. War was hard. Cerberus was difficult. And he was there for her. He was a good thing. Yes. She wanted Garrus to be happy.

Shepard made her way through the crew deck, datapad in hand, engrossed in messages and numbers, confirmations that Garrus’s requisitions had been successfully purchased and were being loaded onto the ship. She approached the doors to the main battery, heard the pneumatic swish as they slid open, and looked up, expecting to see Garrus in his usual position: standing at the control panel immediately beyond the doors. She was surprised: he wasn’t there.

“Garrus?” Shepard yelled.

“Here, Shepard,” Garrus replied. His voice came from deeper within the battery. Shepard turned, following his voice onto the catwalk that edged along the right side of the canon. Her datapad dinged—another confirmation message. Shepard looked down to skim it, rounding the corner to the left, steps ringing on the metal floor.

“So we’ve made a few new acquisitions I thought you’d be interested in,” Shepard said. She was careful with her words: she didn’t want him to know the lengths she had gone through to secure the new equipment. She didn’t want him to feel indebted to her, or feel that she expected a “thank you”. This was for him, not her gratification.

“That sounds vaguely suspicious,” said Garrus. His voice was oddly muffled. Shepard looked up and saw Garrus’s legs, everything from his waist up buried in the hull of the canon. Tools, metal panels, pieces of his hardsuit, and a rag were all strewn at his feet.

“Garrus?” Shepard asked, laughter in her voice. His arms withdrew from the canon, one holding a wrench, the other pressing the canon’s side as he pulled himself out and up to his full height.

Shepard started. The newness began here: pieces of Garrus’s hardsuit had been abandoned in favor of more casual clothing. His chest plate, gauntlets, and cowl, now laying on the floor of the catwalk, had been replaced by what appeared to be (bizarrely) a sleeveless, black shirt.

It didn’t make any sense.

Garrus reached down, exchanging the wrench in his hand for the rag by his feet. He began to wipe his hands and forearms, covered in dark, pearlescent oil, presumably from working on the canon. Shepard noticed his hands, which were typically gloved: three fingers each; long, nimble, and clawed; thicker than she had expected. Her eyes traveled up to his wrists, then to his forearms, his elbows, his upper arms. They were plated, like his face. The plates on his arms were raised and reflective, silvery, and glimpses of darker, delicate skin appeared in the valleys between them. The insides of his wrists and elbows consisted entirely of that gentle skin; exposed. The plates were not what Shepard had expected: not brittle, hard, metallic armor, but organic and flexible. They were more similar to a callous than a carapace. They gave a little, bent and shifted as Garrus moved his hands the muscles beneath them flexed.

Shepard paused. It didn’t make any sense at all. He was alien (obviously) and strange -- he was a turian, for fuck’s sake. But what was stranger still was how oddly _human_ – rather, _familiar_ he looked, regardless of his cowl and plates and angles. He was different, yes, but pieces of him translated to Shepard’s understanding of human anatomy: his arms; (mortifyingly) the muscles beneath his skin, denser and more expansive along his upper arms; the way his torso tapered at his waist; the breadth of his chest; the curve of his shoulders; the line of his neck; the way his body rose and fell with each breath. It was all different from what Shepard knew, the human bodies she had experienced, and at once nearly identical. It was—

“So what is it that you think I’d be interested in?” Garrus asked. Shepard’s eyes snapped to his. She had been looking at his bicep, datapad still cradled in her hand. (Bicep? Could she call it that? Was that what it was? Was she really looking?) She had been, apparently, looking longer than expected: Garrus’s hands were now significantly less oily.

“What?” Shepard said.

“I dunno, you said you had something to show me?”

“Why is your shirt off?” Shepard blurted.

“What?”

“Why is your shirt off?”

Garrus blinked.

“Actually, if you’ll notice, I’m still wearing a shirt.”

“Goddammit,” Shepard sighed, exasperated.

“What, you wish I wasn’t? Shepard, I’m flattered.”

“Goddammit!”

“I kid, I kid. I had to do some manual work on the Thanix and my hard suit was too bulky.” Garrus shrugged and his mandibles spread, his face lifted: a smirk. “It’s nice to get out of armor sometimes, too. Aside from my natural armor, that is. That’s including all of the typical turian assets as well as my wit. Sorry for the surprise.” He turned his back to her, placing the rag on a nearby table and stretching his arms. “So what is it you wanted to tell me?”

“Here.” Shepard handed him the datapad. “We picked up those upgrades you wanted.”

“For the canon?” Garrus asked, looking down on the information in his hands. “Which ones?”

“The extra-legal ones.”

Garrus looked up abruptly.

“What?” Garrus asked. He met her eyes.

“I made sure to get everything you requested,” Shepard said.

“Shepard, how did you…”

“Not a big deal,” Shepard interjected, beginning to turn her back.

“Shepard, wait, this is—”

“For you. It wasn’t a problem. You deserve the best.” Shepard said, as amiably and firmly as she could. She smiled at Garrus very briefly as she began to walk briskly away, barely registering his surprised expression. Garrus momentarily watched her leave before returning to the datapad in his hand and beginning to assess the acquisitions.

“Keep us safe,” Shepard threw over her shoulder before she bolted, walking noticeably faster than usual.

Once she was safely out of sight, Shepard brought her hand to her cheek and felt the skin there: hot beneath her palm, like the heat felt creeping up her neck and burning the tips of her. She was blushing. Fucking blushing. She was—

The experience had been shocking, utterly, completely shocking. He had been in a tight black shirt covered in grease like some fucking mechanic in a bad porno, it was unbelievable. All forearms and tight muscles and stupid flirtations, _“You wish I wasn’t?”_ Jesus Christ it was unbelievably stupid. Absurd. It made Shepard angry. And she had been all butterflies, all tingling, electric stomach, all lingering eyes, dry mouth, and fumbling. She had barely managed to turn her back in time to conceal her blush. Shepard had been rocked— _continued_ to be rocked by unbidden images: of her sliding her hands up his arms and onto his shoulders; tracing her fingers along all his edges; pressing her hands into his chest; fiddling with the hem of his shirt and slipping underneath it; pushing her body into his and imagining the delicious pressure she would feel if his arms wrapped around her waist and tightened.

Shepard blushed harder and walked faster.

They were inarticulate desires. It was not a series of “I wants”, no lucid thoughts, just a swarm of images of her body on his and unconscious, physical reactions: her quickened heartbeat, her radiant face, her hot ears, the rolling waves in her stomach, and the tightening between her legs.

The realization, once begun, poured over Shepard like a pitcher of cool water.

_Oh, fuck._

She imagined her fingers tracing his mouth.

_Fuck me._

Shepard blushed more.

_No! Shit, that wasn’t_ …

She made it to the elevator and pressed the button that would take her to her quarters.

Shit, she…

_I want…_

She wanted…

As Shepard thought about the way he’d smiled, the fluttering cascaded from her stomach up into her heart. She pressed her lips tighter together, putting her hand where they met.

_Oh, fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit exhausted, so editing on this chapter may be sub-par. Please let me know if anything is unclear! <3   
> Gotta write some more.


End file.
